


The Language of Flowers

by bobbiewickham



Series: X-ameron [8]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: Combeferre and Jean Prouvaire discuss violets.
Relationships: Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire
Series: X-ameron [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669762
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from wild-oats-and-cornflowers on Tumblr for Combeferre/Prouvaire.

“Shall we go back to my apartment?” Combeferre’s hand slipped forward to caress Prouvaire’s on the pocked Corinthe table, after he had finished his second cup of wine.

“Mine.” Prouvaire turned his hand over to clasp Combeferre’s in a strong grip. “I fell asleep at Joly’s party yesterday night, and I was at your apartment the night before.”

“Very well, if you wish,” Combeferre said, with a shrug, “but you know you can borrow clothes again if you want.”

Prouvaire shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s my violets. They’ll be unhappy if I’m absent for too long.”

Combeferre knew he should keep his mouth shut. Prouvaire was being Prouvaire, and Combeferre certainly didn’t want to put him in a grouchy mood.

Unfortunately, closing his mouth over an argument was never one of Combeferre’s particular strengths. “There’s no reason to think violets have the capacity for unhappiness, or happiness for that matter.”

Prouvaire didn’t become grouchy. He merely gave Combeferre a gentle, pitying smile, the sort of smile he generally reserved for people who, while well-meaning, could not appreciate the full importance of love or art. “Of course there is. I can sense it, in the same way I sense when you’re happy or unhappy.”

“I have words to say how I feel,” Combeferre objected.

“But you often don’t use them, and yet I know anyway.” Prouvaire grinned. “And before you rush in to tell me that I deduce it from the evidence of your behavior–well, I do the same with my violets.”

“Violets don’t have behavior.”

“Not as varied as yours, or as odd–”

“You should talk,” Combeferre snorted.

“–but I can observe if they droop, and in what direction they grow, the luster of their leaves and the freshness of their petals–”

“–none of that is behavior.”

“Why not?” Prouvaire demanded. “Behavior doesn’t have to be the same in plants as in animals, after all.”

Combeferre turned that idea over in his head. “I think that may be specious reasoning,” he said, carefully.

“Ah, a pun.” Prouvaire smiled in approval, stroking Combeferre’s wrist. “Come by my apartment and pay attention to the violets. You can observe, and make educated conclusions.”

In the morning, as they lay next to each other, Combeferre turned over to give Prouvaire an idle kiss, and saw the violets turning to the sun. “I’ll admit they _look_ happy,” he murmured, in Prouvaire’s ear.


End file.
